The Slave Caravan of Seljuk Storm-Eye - The Mother of Slaves Part 1
by Seljuq
Summary: A pit fighting tournament.


Maester Gorghan,

I do not know where to start. You wanted me to learn the people's heart. Your exact words were "eat with them, shit with them". Something like that anyways. Well, now you have it. I have taken upon myself to travel with a circus act. It almost feels like home!

I apologize for my poor humor uncle, but I am not demeaning of my hosts without reason. I have informed them of their foolhardy ways and locked horns with their grumpy master, but they continue on their path nonetheless. Uncle, I am traveling with a slave caravan that fancies itself Tournament Champions.

The slave master, Seljuk Storm-Eye, is preparing his group of slaves to take part in Dothraki pit fighting. The camp of Khal Jaari is still some nights away, but the land we have entered already cracks my feet and dries my throat. My robes are soaked with sweat during the day and cling to my cold body through the night. But all is not bad. Yesterday, we found a girl!

"The Mother of Slaves" Part 1

Seljuk found her half-dead, tied to the skull of a large animal. I took an hour to sketch the remnants of the odd creature while the camp's eunuch, Akhi, bathed and fed her. She was of age but youthful. Tied to the bones of an ancient being long dead. No doubt there is a parable in there somewhere.

"Maester Yoram-" Akhi said.

"It's Maester Yorm," I corrected without looking up, noticing Akhi's well-groomed feet out of the corner of my eye. He wore sandals of bright, mismatched colors.

"Yorim."

"Yorm."

"Yorum."

"For Gods' sake, man. It's Yorm."

"Apologies, brother. I fail you."

"Yes, you have dishonored us all."

Akhi looked dissapointed with himself. I sighed and put away my book. The man had a big heart but it was very easy to break. This was the tenth time my short temper had sent him into depression.

"Seljuk berates you all day, and yet you tear at my comments only."

"Master Seljuk does not mean it."

"Well, I do not mean it either." I noticed he had brought me the girl. She stood emotionless, observing our exchange.

"Does she speak?"

"Not to me," Akhi shrugged.

"Peace, sister," I said. "Do you have a name."

"No," she replied with the same apathetic tone with which she regarded me. I raised my hand to slap her with full force and only stopped myself an inch away. She did not even flinch.

"There is something wrong with her, she is not responding to her senses very well."

"Why do you want to hit her?"

"I don't. What does Seljuk plan on doing with her?"

"Master wanted you to bless her."

"Bless her?"

"Yes."

"Fine, here," I waved my hand over her face and muttered some gibberish, "there, blessed. Now what?"

"I'll take her to Master's wagon."

"Of course," I said, "Maybe she will cheer him up a bit."

Seljuk had been in a sour mood ever since he had heard of a former slave killing himself. Yaghisan was an old slave "champion" who had been too old to visit the Dothraki tournament this year, and Seljuk had left him with a rich magistrate from Qohor. A few days ago, we received word that he had killed himself. Seljuk had his name cursed and the letter burnt. Then he spent the night drunk, going on about all the fights Yaghisan had won in the first days of this strange business. His favourite weapon was the spear. Very hard to use in single combat. He had earned Seljuk much gold and deserved a peaceful end to his days. I tried to convince Seljuk that his friend had gotten just that, and the grouchy one eyed man spit in my face and told me to get lost.

"Master wants you to write her a slave contract," Akhi continued.

"A contract? How many summers?"

Akhi shrugged.

"How many days do you want to be enslaved, girl?" I yelled in the youth's face. "Do you want to leave, then? Some rider will pick you up out here and make you a slave anyways."

"I stay," she finally replied. She had a dothraki accent.

"Fine. How long?"

Silence again.

"Sixty days, then," I scribbled a quick statement on a loose leaf and handed it to Akhi. "Take this to your master, then, and tell him to stick it up his arse."

Akhi looked horrified.

The Caravan was on the move once more and my thoughts drifted to the girl we had picked up. Not for any particular reason. I had not much else to think about sitting in my compartment in one of the slave wagons that were hot with the smell of sweat and leather. Conversation of the fighting arts drifted through the curtains, mixed in with vulgar jokes as varied as the origin of these slaves. Sex and fighting. That is all I need put in my memoirs about this company and their aim. Sex and fighting. They fought well and Seljuk rewarded them with property and whores. If a slave managed to become champion, they might even be released of their five year contracts.

Contracts. That is one of the two reasons I still accompanied this bunch. Seljuk Storm-Eye was an unusual man. He used contracts with his slaves as if they were independent parties in a business. A five summers contract to train and fight. After which they were released and free to leave. The grizzled warrior turned slaver didn't speak much of his past, but I suspect he used to run with a mercenary company. It would explain his current practice.

The second reason is the location of Khal Jaari's "tournament". According to Seljuk's description, the fighting pit is located deep into Sarnori ruins. I could not pass up the opportunity to safely gain first-hand knowledge of the Tall Men. A returning gift for Maester Gorghan. Hopefully it will get me back into good terms with the Qohori maesters. With luck, I might even return to the kingdoms and have my work copied at the Citadel.

Booming laughter cut through my day-dreaming. I flung back the curtains and saw Leopard wiping tears from his eye.

"Funny joke, then?," I said to the men. "Made the big man laugh so hard he's crying."

"Eh, eh! Pinchfire!" the Dragon King yelled. He was one loud Dornishman.

"Come sit with us Pinchfire."

"Calm your horses," I squeezed myself between slave fighters Leopard and the Dragon King. Their real names were Jimshar and Quentos Baran. The big man was a town guard from Ghis, and the Dornishman claimed he was a prince. Both were slave fighters now, with Jimshar "Leopard" the oldest and most accomplished. He had reached eighth in the blademaster ranks. Quentos was nine among the spear-captains, and the rest of the slaves were unranked. If a slave ended their five summers among the top ten ranks in any of the weapon groups, they were rewarded generously from Seljuk. A champion instead was given their own wagon year-round and of course enjoyed great fame back in Qohor. Competition was fierce though, with fighters participating from all over Essos. Blademasters alone numbered close to fifty, with spear-captains close behind.

"We arrive soon," the Dragon King said.

"Familiar with Sarnori ruins are you, Quentos?" I asked.

"Very. We had a full guard of Tall Men eunuchs at my family's harem. I can smell them a mile away."

"There are no Tall Men here, that's why they are ruins," Jimshar said.

"That's what they want you to think," Dragon King replied quickly.

And that started a long winded debate between the fighters I had gotten used to over the past few days. It seems slave fighters are filled with more gossip and legends than all of my mother's friends combined. Quentos Baran was curiously right about one thing though, we had arrived.

Ancient clay pillars, half the height of what they had been originally, rose up from the horizon. I poked my head out from the wagon's window. Surrounding the Sarnori pillars ahead, lay an expanse of mud brick houses and Dothraki tents, milling with people of all colors and fashion.


End file.
